


Rescue Dogs for Beginners

by frankenberger



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cranky Hannibal is cranky, First Kiss, M/M, Not exactly graphic violence but blood, Plenty of blood, Puppies, Thwarted doggy abuse, Will sees dead people, fluff basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 12:56:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5540873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankenberger/pseuds/frankenberger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or: Things to talk about when you're hiding under the bed because the new puppy has made a mess ALL over the rug and Hannibal is super pissed.</p><p>A (very slightly) belated Christmas tale of cute puppies, emotional blackmail, and blood in the snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rescue Dogs for Beginners

"Will!" Hannibal's voice echoes through the quiet house, punctuated by urgent footsteps as he charges from room to room. "For god's sake, Will!"

The low and insistent whine of the new puppy is a discordant harmony, weaving in and out of the chaos.

Will Graham breathes deeply, gazing at the wooden slats so close above his head, the underside of the mattress. His thoughts are unfocused. It is calm down here and pleasantly dark, but he knows he can't stay forever.

"He's scaring the dog." The quiet voice comes from beside him, husky and low in his ear. Will turns toward the girl, eyes adjusting to the dimness. She is whole now and unscarred, her eyes sparkling out of the deep shadows that populate the dusty darkness of this world under the bed. Her head is pillowed on folded arms, her long honey-coloured hair cascading around her shoulders.

"Hello, Georgia," says Will.

Georgia Madchen shifts and stretches, an ethereal smile upon her lips. "Are you alive?"

"For the moment," Will replies. "When he finds me? Who can say."

The blood on his shirt is crusting, and the fabric of his collar scratches and tickles against his neck as his chest rises and falls. Watching the dead girl, as she watches him with knowing eyes. Sharing the frigid air with her figment. "Am I alive?" She asks haltingly, still smiling, and with a ragged sigh Will turns away from her toward the darkened room. Gazing out from underneath the overhanging untucked sheet, the unmade bachelor's bed. His back pressed flat against the carpet.

Beyond the room, the open doorway glows with the dim flicker of firelight. Somewhere in the house, there is a brief and muffled thump as Hannibal's footsteps stop short. A tiny, piteous yelp, a muttered curse in some European language. Will closes his eyes. He can still feel Georgia's breath against his back. Ridiculous, she has been dead for years, but still he channels her as he hides and Hannibal rages. "He won't hurt the dog," he says, but he's not sure if he's trying to convince the shade of Georgia Madchen, or himself. "He wouldn't."

"Serial killers hurt animals first, don't they?" Her voice is low, confidential. "Before they start on people, they mutilate animals. I remember reading it somewhere."

No, she doesn't remember. Can't remember. But Will knows this theory well, and his thoughts come out in the voice of the dead girl. "I didn't think to ask," he says. There never seemed to be a good time to ask a friend if their idea of childhood fun involved torturing furry critters.

"This is Profiling 101," she continues, but it's all wrong, jarringly incongruous and her voice falters, changes. Will knows another dead girl, one who would have more likely read about this proclivity of fledgling serial killers. Breath against his back. He doesn't want to turn and see Abigail Hobbs lying there in Georgia's place.

"Killing us was almost nothing to him. Think how easily he could kill a dog." The voice is indistinguishable, now. Will blots it out.

"No." He says. He has to be sure. "Hannibal won't hurt the dog, because..."

_Because he cares about me._

"False logic," says Abigail, her presence tickling against the back of Will's neck.

The front door of the house opens with a reluctant groan and Hannibal's voice rings out again, shouting into the snow. "Will!"

"She's just a puppy." _Confused and cowering under a stream of insults as the man pulled her lead tight._ "It's not her fault. It's mine."

"We'll have to move house." Abigail's voice, matter-of-fact. The front door slams, and Hannibal moves back down the hallway. _A heavy boot, raised to kick the tiny ball of yellow fluff._

_Mind your fucking business, the man admonished as Will approached in a flurry of snow. It's my goddamn dog. Turn around, walk away._

_Will wished him a Merry Christmas, as he reached inside his coat to draw the blade._

Padding into the dim bedroom, the golden retriever puppy whines mournfully. Scenting Will in his hiding place, she moves uncertainly across the expanse of carpet on her ungainly and oversized feet, seeking the warmth of the only friendly hand she has known in her short life thus far.

"Hey," Will whispers. "No, don't..."

A shadow falls across the doorway and Will falls silent, hesitant to breathe.

The dog pokes her head beneath the cover of the hanging sheet, snuffling at his face.

There is a moment of stillness, the space of a heartbeat, then hands clasp around both of Will's ankles.

Will glances toward Abigail, perhaps to say goodbye, but she is gone.

With a grunt of effort, Hannibal yanks Will bodily from under the bed. His shirt hitches up around his armpits, and the bare skin of his back drags against the floor. Will's fingers grasp uselessly at the carpet and he tries to turn, to scramble away. He hasn't yet recovered full strength in his arms, though, and the healing stab wound in his shoulder pulls with a warning pain as he exerts himself.

Hannibal is stronger than him. He has a daily regimen of plyometric jumps, push ups and various other bodyweight exercises that he performs first thing after rolling out of bed. A habit picked up from his years in the hospital, something that Will has found simultaneously amusing and enthralling when he manages to catch a glimpse in the mornings.

As Will struggles on the bedroom floor, pinned by Hannibal's weight, the morning calisthenics don't seem quite as ridiculous.

"Are you going to apologise, Will?" Hannibal's hands encircle Will's wrists, pressing them to the carpet. His voice is low, but firm. Beside Will's head, the puppy barks. She's protective of him already, admirable but hardly helpful.

"No," Will responds, petulant. 

"You stole a dog," Hannibal starts, although that is hardly the most relevant point. 

"I rescued a dog." Will turns his head toward her and she nuzzles at his forehead with her cool, wet nose. "Her owner was dead. What else do you expect me to do?"

Will is the very soul of practicality, but Hannibal doesn't seem to appreciate this fact. "The owner wouldn't be dead if you hadn't felt the need to kill him, Will." _He stabbed at first, then slashed with broad and fervent strokes. The man crumpled backward into a drift of snow, gurgling as the blood bubbled from his throat. The puppy barked at his feet, golden fur glistening with drops of the red spray._

"I'm not sorry, Hannibal." Hannibal gazes down, and his eyes are fathomless pools. 

"It was reckless."

"It was just." _It was beautiful._

Hannibal's tongue darts out to wet his lips, captivated, as if he can somehow see the scene inside Will's head. _The splashes of blood that soaked into the snow, the body twitching and gasping in the quiet moonlit street as Will stood watching, triumphant. Surprisingly, almost painfully aroused._ Is it written on his face, is it obvious? Several hours have passed, but the recollection seems to have the power to affect Will physically. A sense of power, like the roar of a beast at the back of his mind, and a quickening of his heartbeat. His breath is shallow, fast. 

Hannibal seems to be drinking in the scent of blood that clings to Will, his clothes. He can surely feel the urgent drumming of Will's pulse through his skin. All at once it seems too intimate, too close.

Theirs has been an arrangement of quiet and comfortable co-habitation, unchanged in essence since they dropped into the ocean wrapped in each other's arms. For all the talk of compassion and speculation of a love as yet unacknowledged, there is no awkwardness between them. It has been, and Will had thought it would always be, nothing more than a close friendship. A life lived in separate rooms.

This is different, something new. A step outside their boundaries. Hannibal releases Will's wrists as if burned by the contact, and rests back on his heels, casting his gaze away. He looks at the dog, who whines questioningly.

"I think she likes you, or at least she wants to like you." Will speaks slowly and softly from beneath him. He won't struggle, not anymore. "I haven't named her yet, but..."

Hannibal shudders visibly. "What do you want me to say?"

"Say you forgive me," Will responds, with a slight plaintive note. "We won't have to leave, not yet, I doubt they'll link this..." Accident? Slip-up? Brutal murder? "They won't link this situation to me, or us, but even if they do, say you'll come with me. Say we're in this together."

"Both of us." Hannibal is still watching the dog.

"All three of us," Will corrects him.

Hannibal turns back to Will and tilts his head, runs the smooth pads of his fingertips down the line of Will's jaw. Hannibal has always been inclined toward the tactile, and Will has grown used to the casual touches, the grounding hand upon his shoulder, the affectionate brushes of skin against skin. Now with heavy lidded eyes and parted lips, the essence of the touch has changed. There is an intention in it, and a weight.

Will swallows, throat dry with a nervous expectation. The heat of Hannibal's closeness is making it hard for him to breathe. "Together," he repeats, a hopeful echo. Voice tilting upward, seeking confirmation as his mind whirls and dances around the separation of love and lust and compassion and every nuance in between.

Hannibal looks down at him, still and thoughtful. Will becomes conscious of the play of the cold air upon his bare skin, exposed by the shirt still ruched up under his arms. As he shivers, a warm hand brushes against the scar that curves across his abdomen. This gentle touch, this reverent tracing of the mark on Will's pale skin takes the younger man by surprise, ignites a flush in his cheeks. 

Hannibal can hear Will's sharp intake of breath and takes it as an invitation, spreads his palm flat to grip at Will's hip, digging into his flank with long fingers and short, blunt nails. He dips his head down, and Will feels a rough, wet warmth as Hannibal traces the scar with a long swipe of his tongue. Will jerks underneath him, overcome by the sensation, releasing a low and shaking moan.

Beside the men, the small yellow dog barks.

Hannibal digs his fingernails into Will's side with bruising pressure as he stiffens, sighs. He glances up with veiled menace in his eyes, mouthing a curse under his breath.

It seems that Will can hear a hollow chuckling coming from the dark space under the bed, but he knows that this is just his imagination. Hannibal would never hurt the dog, could never. "Sorry," Will says. "Look, I'll teach her, she'll learn, we'll..."

Hannibal is already vaulting to his feet, cradling the puppy to his chest between two palms, his hands suddenly enormous in comparison. As Will sits up, head spinning from the change in position, Hannibal swiftly deposits the dog outside the door and closes it, plunging the bedroom into sudden twilight.

"We can teach her together," Will continues, as Hannibal crosses the room and flicks on the bedside lamp.

"Be quiet," says Hannibal roughly. As he crouches down, Will can clearly see the rigid outline straining against the seam of his pants. He places a hand in the centre of Will's chest and pushes, coaxing him back to the floor. With the finger and thumb of one hand, he begins to slowly and deftly unbutton Will's shirt, the flicking motion providing punctuation as he speaks. "I don't want to hear one..." _Flick._ "...more..." _Flick._ "...word."

Outside the door, the puppy cries plaintively. Hannibal ignores this, spreading Will's shirt around him as he gazes upon the expanse of smooth, bare chest. Along his neckline, the skin is stained with arterial spray. "I have been here all day preparing our holiday feast, while you caper about town, stealing dogs and slicing poor hapless idiots into ribbons." His voice trails away as he leans in, nosing along Will's collarbone. "You come home, so happy with your reckless, stupid kill, reeking of blood."

Will realises that Hannibal is jealous. It was never about the dog. It was the kill, the missed opportunity to hunt together, and Will is ashamed. "I've been selfish," He admits. "I suppose I am sorry."

"An apology is all I ask." Hannibal says, his nose pressed against the tender patch of skin behind Will's ear, breathing deeply. "Well, perhaps not all."

"You should have been there," says Will, and his voice is teasing, hoarse with wanting. "I wish I could have showed you." _The way the man had grabbed at the leg of Will's pants as he bled out onto the snow, and Will had watched, dark-eyed and hungry and so punishingly hard he didn't even think he could walk._ "I would have carved a tribute to you in his flesh."

Hannibal presses a soft and lingering kiss against the pulse in Will's throat.

"He would have sung your praises into the darkness."

Hannibal's hand snakes around the back of Will's head, tangling in the hair at the base of his neck.

"It would have been the perfect Christmas present."

Hannibal exhales a soft chuckle as he lifts his head, meeting Will's eye once more. "Maybe you're the perfect Christmas present," he says, as their lips meet. 

The kiss is open-mouthed and hungry. Hannibal twists sweat-damp curls in his fist and pulls, enjoying the small noises the other man makes against him. He presses down with his full weight, grinding their hips together, savouring the friction for a long moment before Will turns his head away, panting.

Will can hear the low growl in the back of Hannibal's throat, frustrated and close to murderous. "Wait," he says, with his last ounce of self-control. "What about my gift?"

The younger man tosses his head back and forth as Hannibal snaps at him, trying to recapture his mouth. His grip on Will's hair tightens. "Are you trying to bribe me, Will?"

"Maybe." Will responds. His lips ache for the kiss, the rest of his body strains for release. He hopes that Hannibal feels it too.

"Fine," says Hannibal, finally. "We can keep the dog."

This acquiescence almost seemed to cause Hannibal physical pain, and Will has to admit that it adds to the appeal. Smirking, he winds his arms around Hannibal's neck. 

"Merry Christmas," he manages to say, before Hannibal catches his lower lip between his teeth, his hand reaching down between them to cup Will's aching heat through the fabric of his pants. 

Hannibal is all too eager to unwrap his present, and Will, feeling like he has gotten the best end of this deal by far, is all too eager to be unwrapped.

**Author's Note:**

> Eh, it's a little all over the place but I can't hang onto this one forever. I must let it go. Fly, fly my pretty!
> 
> Gradually working my way toward posting some smuttier stuff, but I'm super shy so... Hmm. I dunno.
> 
> Anyway, hope you liked it, my lovelies. Kudos and comments give me warm fuzzy feelings. Much like this glass of brandy. Seasonal drinking FTW. 
> 
> I hope that you all had (or are in the midst of having) a wonderful, safe and joyous holiday season!
> 
> ps. I suck at titles. I hate titling things. Sooner or later I'm just going to start titling everything "Story no. 4", "Story no. 5" etc etc.


End file.
